Slowly Deteriorating
by Merthallum
Summary: SPOILERS FOR THE DEATH CURE! One-shots from Newt's POV leading up to his death.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: Most of the dialogue is taken from The Death Cure and is not original. I do not own the rights to The Maze Runner Trillogy.**

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><p>They are all standing in a room, staring at Rat Man, listening to him ramble on about seemingly unimportant stuff. But then something he says catches Newt's attention. There is a slight shift in his tone of voice when he says, "There's something I need to tell you before you regain your memories. It'll be better to hear it from me than to...remember the testing."<p>

Newt is getting confused. What was he talking about? What testing? A girl, Harriett, seems to be thinking the exact same thing. "What're you talking about?" she asks.

The Rat Man changes his expression to one of a grim nature and seems to lean in closer to the group of people from Groups A and B, looking intently at every single one of them at once. "Some of you are immune to the Flare. But…some of you aren't. I'm going to go through the list -please do your best to take it calmly."

Newt is confused. Some of them have been immune this whole time? Has he been immune this whole bloody time? He pushes out the thought. He won't let himself think like that; to get his hopes up. Still, Rat Man made it sound like there were only a handful of people who aren't immune, which means that at least most of his friends are safe. That comforts him a little bit, especially after all this time thinking that they were all fated to become one of those slinthead cranks.

Rat Man spoke up again. "For an experiment to provide accurate results, one needs a control group. We did our best to keep the virus from you as long as we could, but it's airborne and highly contagious."

He pauses, looking at them as if expecting some cry or outburst from the group, and the suspense was driving Newt crazy. He finally blurts out what he is thinking. "Just bloody get on with it. We all figured we had the buggin' disease anyway. You're not breaking our hearts."

Sonya quickly backs him up. "Yeah, cut the drama and tell us already." Newt couldn't agree more.

Rat Man gives them all a deferring look, but finally clears his throat and continues. "Okay, then. Most of you are immune." Newt is the slightest bit comforted by this statement. "Only two of you are considered Candidates now, but we'll go into that later." _Just get to the bloody point,_ Newt thinks impatiently. "Let's get to the list." _Finally._" The following people are _not_ immune: Newt…"

Newt looks at the ground, painfully succumbing to his fate as Rat Man lists the rest of the people who must face the same doom. At the very least he never let his guard down, and he won't let this affect him. He is still Newt. It is better to accept your doom than to dread it. Plus, it's not like anything is any different than it had been minutes ago. No, it is different. His friends are safe. Tommy and Minho are safe. And for now, that's what matters most. He's almost glad that he is not immune. At least he won't have to watch his friends suffer. He feels almost like he is taking a bullet for them, in a way, which he would gladly do any day.

When he looks over at his friends, he sees Tommy laying on the floor, terror filling his eyes. Suddenly it hits Newt. He's a crank. Newt's a bloody crank. He's been one for a while, and sooner or later the disease is going to catch up to him and he's going to turn into one of those blood-thirsty beasts that populate the Scorch. And he realizes that every single one of his remaining hours are somehow precious. He walks over to his friend and says "Tommy, slim yourself," as he puts on his best smile.

Tommy looks up at him with disbelief in his eyes. "Slim myself? That old shank just said you're not immune to the Flare. How can you-"

"I'm not worried about the bloody Flare, man. I never thought I'd still be alive at this buggin' point - and living hasn't exactly been so great anyway." The truth in his words sink in and he almost wishes he could take them back, but he keeps his calm, still holding his fake smile for Tommy.

Tommy shakes his head and says, "If you're cool with slowly going crazy and wanting to eat small children, then I guess we won't cry for you."

Newt nods, and feeling the smile fading from his face, unemotionally responds, "Good that."


	2. Chapter 2

It's happening. Newt can already feel parts of his brain crumbling, like they are struggling to maintain themselves but are too weak to bear their own weight. His memories seem distracted; he can't focus on one thought for too long and his mind wearies quickly whenever he makes a decision, even if it is a small one.

And the itching. The itching is the worst part. He can feel it inside his head, eating at his brain. It's always right there, lurking beneath his skull and always growing, always mutating, like a beast adapting to its surroundings; and it is driving him crazy. He shakes his head violently and rubs his head viciously trying to rid himself of it, but it never leaves, and he knows that it never will.

He can already tell that the Newt that once was is slowly disappearing and fading into a distant memory. A statue marked in history as a mere testimony of what was, and what was lost.

He is always cranky, always on edge, always furious at the slightest disturbance, and the part of him that is still sane hates it. This isn't him. Newt would never get angry and uncontrollably frustrated over something as small as Minho's sassy remarks. Newt would never punch his friend, even after being crudely insulted by him, and especially not in the middle of an attempted escape. Newt would never act unreasonably in a risky situation; he always kept his calm. And Newt would certainly never write the letter he is writing now.

Newt looks down at the words scrawled across the small piece of paper.

"Kill me. If you have ever been my friend, kill me."

As much as Newt dreads the words on the paper, he knows that they are his only hope. He knows that the fate that awaits him is inevitable, and sooner or later he will turn into one of those cranks. The ones past the Gone. A living, breathing zombie. And he knows that he can't let his friends watch him slowly go insane. Slowly turn into a monster without a soul. And the last thing he wants is to hurt them. He's already gotten into one fight so far, and he won't let himself do any more harm. He doesn't know how, but he knows that a time will come very soon when he will need to die, and he won't have the will to do the job himself. That's what the letter is for. There is only one person left in the world whom he trusts. One person whom he knows would never let him down. That one person is the one he must ask to do the one thing he can't do himself.

And that one person is Tommy.


	3. Chapter 3

Newt is alone.

Tommy and the others have left to go find this Hans dude, and he is left all alone in the Berg. Somehow loneliness makes everything worse. He thought that being alone would help; after all he seemed to be getting ticked off at anything anybody said or did before they all left, but now the isolation is driving him mad.

He can't sleep. He can't go explore the place. He can't talk to anybody. He has nothing to do except think about his impending doom and imagine all the different scenarios in which he ends up dead.

The itching in the back of his head is getting worse, slowly eating its way through Newt's brain, torturing him as he has no way of rubbing it down or shaking it off; it's just constantly there, unaffected by any desperate attempt to make it go away. Newt finds himself violently swinging his head back and forth in repeated spasms, trying to shake off the crawling irritation lying maddeningly out of reach inside his skull, wickedly working its way through his hastily withering brain.

Images of cranks past the Gone flash through Newt's head, and he can feel himself slowly becoming one. Slowly losing his mind to this unwelcome, cataclysmic infection. Desire for violence suddenly overcomes him, and he sporadically stands up and bangs his head on the wall of the berg. A brutal wave of pain rushes through Newt's head, pulsing furiously, and he stumbles to the ground, floating black blurs clouding his vision for several seconds before the pulses die down until the only pain left in his head is the unending irritation beneath his skin.

As he lies on the ground he thinks of his friends. What would they think of him right now? How would they react to him spasmodically crashing his head into the wall? He knows that he is slipping very fast, and there's no way to slow yourself down when you're sliding down a steep, slick and muddy slope. He is losing it. He is rapidly turning into a monster. A Crank. Less than an animal. He is pathetic.

Newt curls himself into a tight ball and sobs unrestrainedly. He feels no shame as sticky teardrops roll down his face, around his nose, and across his cheek, landing with a silent thud on the floor. His teardrops seem heavier than gold, each one holding the weight of a thousand wishes never granted. Countless hopes, ruthlessly shattered. Priceless friendships, forever lost. Newt is lost in his despair, utterly overwhelmed by thoughts of his doom, gradually creeping upon him.

One thought suddenly flashes through him like a blinding light appearing from deep within a dark cave. Tommy. Tommy is his only hope now. His last window of opportunity to escape his quickly approaching doom. He can trust Tommy. He knows he can. But where is he? Why isn't he with Newt? What is Newt doing all alone in this dark ship?

Hans. Of course. Tommy and Minho and the others went to find Hans because...

Why did they need to find Hans? Newt hunts through his remaining memories, trying to recall, but the detail has slipped his mind and he eventually gives up, the mental effort wearying him extensively, to the point of visual fuzziness and lightheadedness. He can feel his brain spinning uncontrollably inside his skull, amplifying the commotion that already existed up there. He is about to explode.

And then emptiness. All of the whirling eruptions disappear swiftly, and he lays senseless on the ground, the remaining traces of what is left of Newt slowly slipping into oblivion.


	4. Chapter 4

He sits in the corner of the bowling alley, thoughtlessly fiddling with a plastic fork in between his fingers. In and out, floating from his index to his middle finger; from his ring finger to his pinky and back again. In and out, balancing the fork's weight with nothing but muscle memory. In and out, wondering when his brain would take even that from him. In and out and in and out and in and out, the repeated motion creating a seemingly coordinated rhythm, lulling him into a mind numbing trance. In and out and in and out.

Around him lie countless more diseased people just like him, hiding in their own corners, or else, the more Gone ones, picking fights with other Cranks, causing unwanted disturbances in the close-quartered room. Earlier today, Newt was discovered hiding in the Berg and taken to this buggin' place to be isolated from society, although it was obviously already deteriorating from the inside. After leaving a note for his friends, he didn't resist the strange men in red suits that escorted him here; he knew he didn't stand a chance against them anyway.

Newt thinks about his friends who have stuck with him to the end. Well, nearly the end.

Minho. Sure he's rough around the edges sometimes, but his hearts in the right place. He was always a good friend to Newt, and even though they had their disagreements (quite often), he was a loyal friend and cared for Newt in his own, strange, and maybe at times a bit violent ways.

Jorge. Newt only knew Jorge for a short time, but, in his annoying but necessarily strict ways, was a good companion in the end. Even if he did threaten to cut off Minho's fingers at one point.

Tommy. Rage crashes into Newt's mind at the thought of him. Sickening him. Thomas. He broke his promise. He broke his promise. He broke..

Newt's breathing quickens as anger seizes him, gripping him like a wolf to its prey, holding him tightly in clenched teeth.

No. That's not right. Tommy never promised anything. But the letter. Surely he'd read the letter? And how could Thomas betray him like this? Newt had one wish. One last wish that would save him from this living Hell. And Tommy, the one person he trusted with that wish, has let him down. Sealed his fate.

But maybe Tommy never read the letter?Of course he read the letter! Why wouldn't he have read the letter? The time was obviously right! Didn't he know that? Of course he did!

Newt's mind spins around, fighting with itself until it finally decides upon anger. Thomas was wrong. Thomas betrayed him when Newt needed him most.

The thought infects Newt's mind until every memory, every mishap, and every mistake is all Thomas' fault. In Newt's thoughts, Thomas becomes the enemy and not the friend. The Betrayer and not the Leader. And Newt hates Thomas with every ounce of him that is left.

Firm in his belief, Newt returns to his mind-numbing activity of turning the fork in and out of his fingers, but when he picks up the fork, he can't remember how to turn it in his fingers. Regardless of how hard he tries, he can't seem to re-create the action that has been familiar to him since he arrived in the Glade. Hopeless and frustrated, he throws the fork across the room, the plastic object landing on a peacefully sleeping Crank, who, after shifting slightly on the ground, falls back into a deep sleep.

Newt lowers his head into his hands. Frustration, anger and confusion build up inside him until they explode into moist tears, and, exhausted from being alive, Newt closes his eyes and falls asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

The plans are made. Newt is going to escape with the help of some of the other Cranks tomorrow from this filth-ridden asylum. Hunger and thirst gnaw at Newt's dirty shanks that run the place don't give a shuck about supplying the Cranks with food or water, leaving themselves as the only source of food, and crazy as he may be, Newt is pretty set on _not_ becoming some Crank's next meal.

Newt sits in the corner that he has become his personal nest and rocks back and forth on the ground with his head hanging between his knees. He hears a voice. But there's something very particular about the voice. It's not any voice coming from some Crank. He can tell by the way it fluctuates with an even temper and a soft tone. It's...sane. And another thing. _Newt._ His name. It's calling out his name.

Newt looks up to see two men entering the room. Strangers. He's never seen them before in his life. At least the parts of it that he can remember.

"Newt!" A short, bald man calls out his name again, looking around for the man that lies behind the name he's shouting out.

Newt stands up and looks at the men, wondering what they could possibly want from him. Once a person enters this hellhole, they cease to become an individual. They become the Cranks, whose names are meaningless.

And yet here is a man calling out his name. But why?

The bald guy nudges the man next to him, tall with the slightest hint of a mustache, and he looks over at Newt. Together they walk in his direction.

Newt stares at them as they approach him, with a barely open mouth and tired eyes, his vision too blurred to see clearly.

The shorter of the guards speaks up. "You've got some friends out there waiting for you. They claim they won't leave without you. We're here to escort you back to them."

_A rescue? _Newt's friends have come to rescue him! Minho and Jorge and Brenda and… and… and Thomas.

Once again anger swells up inside of Newt and his constant throbbing headache somehow amplifies with the feelings. Thomas abandoned him. Deserted him. All the familiar feelings of loss and betrayal come swarming back to him.

And then, unexpectedly, a small part of the person Newt used to be leaks in. Instead of anger and fury, he feels sorrow and pity. Sorrow because even after all of it, the Maze and the Scorch and the escape from WICKED, the pain and the endurance and the hope, even after all of it, Newt is doomed to a worse death than any that could have been wrought upon him in the Maze. Sorrow because the one reason he never tried to kill himself again was because he knew deep down that he had worth as a human being, and now even that has amounted to nothing. He _is_ worthless.

And Pity. Pity for his friends because they will have to watch him shoot down into the lifeless abyss of insanity. They will have to endure it, and Newt knows that that is probably a worse fate than his own.

And that's when it hits him. He _can't_ let his friends see him like this. Not now, and certainly not later, when he's past the Gone. There is no way that he can put them through that, especially when there's a danger of him hurting them.

Newt gathers up all the courage he can muster and looks up at the guards, intensifying his gaze and steadying his voice and says, "You can tell them to get lost."


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey guys, sorry I ****haven't posted in a while, but, you know, school and stuff, so I have not had a chance to write until now, but this is my last installment ****for this story, and I'm ending it with a bang! Sorry. Really bad pun. Anyways, hope you all have enjoyed the story and please give encouragement, criticism, or maybe even requests/ suggestions for a new story in the reviews! Enjoy!**

A dog whimpering in the adjacent alley. The lid of a trashcan clanging on the asphalt. Grunts and nonsensical blabbering deriving from the Cranks surrounding him. A car screeching to a halt. A bird flutter … no. Something is off. The car? When is the last time Newt has heard the sound of a car? The thought is fleeting and he thinks nothing more of it, returning to … what is he returning to? Scavenging, he supposes. Finding food. Picking a fight with some weaker Crank. A miniscule part of his brain registers and understands that he is not quite past the Gone. Not yet. But he will be soon. Any day now.

His life has become a series of eat, sleep, and be miserable. Nothing to live for. Nothing to die for. Just … nothing. If he feels anything, it is indifference. Indifference to food or starvation, peace or hostility, life or death. Nothing matters. He remains impartial to everything; everything but the itching. The Itching. The constant, incessant, neverending, unforgiving, brutal, hateful, spiteful itching; it butchers his brain, trashes his tranquility, weathers his will. Is there anything it will not do to undermine him? Destroy him? Consume him.

Confusion. Frustration. Sanitation? Forget it. Calypso. _What is that?_ A place? A name? A party would be fun. If it wasn't for the smell. That god awful smell. Smells. Smelling a cake fresh out of the oven. But he had never smelled that before. At least not that he could remember. Nonsense. This makes no sense. What is he even thinking about? He can't think. _They will pay for this!_ But who will pay? Who did this to him? _Who did this to him?_ Why can't he think straight? Why is this happening to him? _Where am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who…_

Something snatches his attention. Someone. Someone is walking towards him, but it isn't a Crank. No, this is a sane one. But there's something about him. Something obvious that Newt can't recall. What is it? The sane one starts talking.

"Hey. Newt. It's me, Thomas. You still remember me, right?"

_Newt._ It's right then that Newt realizes he has forgotten his own name. It has become unimportant and was never used anyways. Why should he remember it?

_Thomas. Thomas._ Tommy! Newt remembers now. Tommy: his friend! Thomas: his enemy.

Something suddenly clicks in his brain when he sees Thomas. A sort of clarity, like his mind jump-started back into action at the sight of a familiar face. Traces of the Newt he once was before the Flare caught hold of him peep in through the holes of insanity that fill up his mind, and he can think clearly. Well… at least as clearly as a Crank like him could ever hope to think.

With a new-found confidence he responds to his friend: "I bloody well remember you, Tommy. You just came to see me at the Palace, rubbed it in that you ignored my note. I can't go completely crazy in a few days." He's amazed at how clearly he can talk now.

"Then why are you here? Why are you with … them?"

Them? The Cranks, he must mean. Why _is_ he with the other Cranks? "I can't explain it. Sometimes I can't control myself, barely know what I'm doing. But usually it's just like an itch in my brain, throwing everything off-kilter just enough to bother me … make me angry." The Itch. He has almost forgotten about it, seeing Thomas's face, but the mention of it brings down its irritation on him like a guillotine.

"Newt, come with me this time, right now. We can take you somewhere safer, somewhere better to … "

Suddenly Newt laughs at the irony of it all. Freedom from these god-forsaken streets is in his grasp. He could leave with Tommy right now and go somewhere pleasant and die peacef- … no. Not peacefully. Once he is past the Gone he will only try to take his friends down. Kill them, most likely, and they'd have to watch him suffer. And it would hurt them to see him like that. He still has some ounce of dignity. He knows he can't go with Tommy. He can leave, but he won't. Again he laughs at the misery of his situation, the laugh sending a shot of pain straight to his head, touching a nerve that makes it jolt involuntarily. "Get out of here, Tommy. Get away."

"Just come with me!" Thomas pleads. "I'll tie you up if it makes you feel better."

Rage invades Newt's heart when he says this. Does he not get it? What part of "get out of here" does he not understand? Newt is as good as dead … no. He's worse than dead. He's losing his mind, slowly and soullessly sauntering into insanity. No going back. And it's all because of Thomas. He worked with WICKED; he's the bloody reason he was ever in the Glade to start with. And he ignored the note. The note that held his last hope of dignity. And now he's standing here acting like all's fine and everybody gets a happy ending. But that's not true. Newt will never get a happy ending, and he knows it. And it's all Thomas's fault!

"I hate you Tommy!" Newt spits out as he slowly starts to approach him, not even fully conscious of his actions but entirely genuine in his words. "I hate you I hate you I hate you! After all I did for you, after all the freaking klunk I went through in the bloody Maze, you can't do the one thing I've ever asked you to do!"

With Palms clenched, Newt continues to walk towards Thomas with disgust, enmity, loathing; revenge pulses through his popping veins.

Thomas holds out his hands palms down, as if he's trying to soothe the situation. "Newt you need to stop. Just stop and listen to me! Get in the van, let me tie you up. Give me a chance!"

He doesn't have the guts to do it. The only thing that could ever justify what he did, and he doesn't have the guts to do it. Pulsing waves of hatred strike him and an instinctive scream emerges from his mouth as he runs uncontrollably at Thomas, flings himself at his opponent, and knocks him to the ground.

"I could rip your eyes out," Newt screams into Thomas's face. "Teach you a lesson in stupidity. Why'd you come over here? You expected a bloody hug? Huh? A nice sit-down to talk about the good times in the Glade?"

Thomas shakes his head, his eyes crawling with fear and he starts reaching for something. A gun.

"You wanna know why I have this limp, Tommy? Did I ever tell you? No, I don't think I did." Spitting his spiteful words at Thomas, he continues, " I tried to kill myself in the Maze. Climbed halfway up one of those bloody walls and jumped right off. Alby found me and dragged me back to the Glade right before the Doors closed. I hated the places, Tommy. I hated every second of every day. And it was all … your … _fault_ !"

In desperation, Newt closes his hand around the hand Thomas is holding the gun with and forces it up to his own head. "Now make amends! Kill me before I become one of those shuck cannibal monsters! I trusted _you_ with the note! No one else. Now do it!"

Agony and despair are written in Thomas's face. "I can't, Newt, I can't"

Newt lowers his voice in anguish and forces the words out of his mouth. "Kill me, you shuck coward. Prove you can do the right thing. Put me out of my misery."

"I can't"

"Do it!"

"I can't"

"Kill me or I'll kill you! Kill me! Do it!"

"Newt…"

"Do it before I become one of them!

"I…"

"KILL ME!" Newt screams, and a gust of exhaustion blows away his adrenaline-powered fury, and with an almost dream-like peace, he gathers one last crumb of sanity and embeds it in his final words. "Please, Tommy, Please."

And with that, Thomas, devoured by grief and desperation, closes his eyes and pulls the trigger.

The Itching. The Itching is gone.


End file.
